


February 23 1994

by scullyitsme



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Fiestaware, GOTDAM BIRTHDAY FIC, Gen, Light Crying, Long Rambling Answering Machine Messages, MELISSA SCULLY'S DISEMBODIED VOICE, Mulder & Scully Never Actually Say What They're Talking About, Mulder Can Quote U2 and Ulysses, Mulder Day Drinks, Mulder Nuts About Supernovas, Scully Gets Her Period Because At This Point She Was Still Menstruating, Scully Just Keeps Unfolding Like A Flower, Scully Stealing Fries, Scully's 30th Birthday, The U.S. Navy, bb mulder, bb scully, dad angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:19:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9893591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyitsme/pseuds/scullyitsme
Summary: Scully birthday fic: her 30th, which would have been her first in the X-Files with Mulder, was also just after her father died and probably the events of Genderbender – so like, damn. Here's a little ficlet about Mulder helping her celebrate without ever actually acknowledging that's what they're doing – as is their way. Notes at the end.





	

Scully stumbles out of a dream, a series of futile blinks against her too-dark bedroom. Her mother always calls her at 4:42 in the morning on February 23rd; the exact moment of her birth. The clock on her night stand reads 5:01. 

Her mother will stay dead-to-the-world from the tranquilizers until at least mid-morning, if not lunch time. Grieving widows need their rest. Scully knows this, but there’s still a childish whine in her chest at being forgotten. 

Her father’s been dead almost two months. It’s only because she’s thinking of him now that she realizes there must have been a point in the last six weeks when she wasn’t, and she doesn’t know when that moment was. But now that he’s on her mind again, she knows he will be for the remains of the day.

She’s 30. She knows it should mean something to her, but it doesn’t. 

Zinc, she thinks. Atomic number 30 on the periodic table of elements. It galvanizes other metals, keeps them from rusting. It’s an essential component of proper human nutrition, abundant in spinach, oysters, beef, kidney beans — 

Sunflower seeds.   
  


* * *

 

She tries to imagine herself interrupting Mulder’s diatribe on The Taos Hum to inform him that it’s her birthday. She’s certain he’s read her file, and while she doubts that he would have committed her date of birth to memory, she doesn’t feel entirely confident ruling it out. 

She’d been assigned to the X-Files a few weeks after her 29th.  She’d spent the evening alone in the tub drinking straight from a bottle of smoky Malbec. The year before, she and Jack Willis celebrated their shared birthday by fucking each other raw in a cabin nestled somewhere in the Blue Ridge Highlands, which she’d probably never be able to find again — not that she’d want to.  

It hadn’t been about the sex anyway. She didn’t crave sex — never had. At least, not strongly enough that she couldn’t satisfy it herself in the same manner as she approached everything in life: with skill and speed. Dana Scully was proficient and expedient in her mastabatory prowess — a laurel not included on her curriculum vitae. 

She wanted Jack because he thought she was fascinating and necessary. Because he told her she was “achingly brilliant”. Because he was a little afraid of her, and she liked that. She wanted him because his desire for her was so intense it made his hands shake. Because she had a cabinet full of dish ware and coffee mugs that she never used, and a drawer of untouched cutlery she hadn’t even had to wash yet. 

“Y’alright there, Scully?” 

She blinks up at Mulder. He’s wearing a mildly amused half-grin and his hair is flopping onto his forehead like a doofy adolescent. He probably hasn’t washed it since Monday, and it’s Wednesday. She doesn’t know whether to be impressed or distressed by his dedication to an aesthetic of rumpled indolence. 

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she says, but it comes out more of a moan squeezed between her teeth. She doesn’t look up at him because she doesn’t want to be embarrassed by a flicker of arousal in his eyes — or worse, a complete lack thereof. 

He relaunches his exposition and she glances down at her lap intending to pick at a cuticle, at which time she notices her blouse is buttoned crooked.  

* * *

 

At quarter ‘till noon, she sighs into her hands in the women’s restroom. She doesn’t have a tampon, and the Bureau doesn’t exactly offer a concierge service for its feminine minority. 

She approximates how many periods she’s had in her life (187), which is around how many she estimates she has left until menopause. As she wads up some diaphanous toilet tissue, she considers the virtues of ditching her diaphragm for The Pill in order to permanently staunch her onerous monthly blood letting. 

If and until she decides to get pregnant, at least. She stuffs the gauzy bundle into her underwear and frowns, batting away the ridiculous mental image of herself as a spherical skeptic, waddling after Mulder into some abject gloom.

She yanks up her petite-short slacks and wonders where he thinks babies come from. 

* * *

When Mulder announces it’s lunch time as he stretches his brawny arms above his head — groaning with almost erotic satisfaction as his back cracks — she doesn’t protest. 

She doesn’t say anything, actually. Just grabs her coat and follows him, yanking her leather gloves from the pockets of her trench as they ascend the stairs. They emerge side by side from the obscurity that’s become so familiar to her into the white-hot light of the bullpen.

He blows into his cupped hands as they step into the parking garage, nodding toward his car. Scully doesn’t object to this either, she just slides into the passenger seat and buckles in before he’s even put the key in the ignition. 

She says nothing until he merges onto I-395.

“I thought we were going to lunch, Mulder?” She hadn’t meant to snivel, and the sound of it grinds through her skull like an ultrasonic bone saw.

“We are,” he says, revealing nothing but a few of his molars in a wide grin. He turns on the radio and taps his palms against the steering wheel in time to the beat. 

Her indulgent smirk morphs into something more agog when she realizes he knows all the words to this U2 song. She actually hears herself laugh a moment later when she realizes that somehow — through osmotic means maybe —  so does she. 

_ Johnny, take a dive with your sister in the rain _

_ Let her talk about the things you can't explain _

_ To touch is to heal, to hurt is to steal _

_ If you want to kiss the sky, better learn how to kneel. _

_ She's the wave, she turns the tide _

_ She sees the man inside the child _

_ It's alright, it's alright, it's alright _

_ She moves in mysterious ways _

* * *

“Are you going to make me guess what X-File could possibly be lurking in the U.S. Navy Yard?” she quips, throwing him a look. He’s locking his car, so he doesn’t see it.

“We’re not here on business, Scully,” he says, giving his keys an exaggerated jangle before dropping them into the bottomless pocket of his ankle-length trench. She’d probably be up to her shoulder if she tried to retrieve them, she thinks. 

“Mulder—” she starts, expecting him to interrupt her. When he doesn’t, and his hand hovers at the small of her back, she realizes she never intended to finish the sentence. 

* * *

“I haven’t been here since I was a kid,” she blushes, knowing her voice is caked with nostalgia.

“I figured as much,” Mulder shrugs, “Your father was a Captain, right?” 

She looks up to where he’s nodding toward a display of naval uniforms. The crisp whites make her throat ache. She can almost smell the bleach hanging in the air for weeks after her father went out to sea again. She’s still amazed her mother’s hands aren’t scarred from chemical burns. 

“Yeah,” Scully breathes, unable to look away from the faceless mannequin wearing her father’s regalia, “Cruisers mostly, if memory serves. A littoral combat ship or two right before he retired. They were building them in San Diego. Still are, I think.”

“What are they? Destroyers?” 

Scully lets her gaze fall away, gets her bearings in the museum’s atrium, “No, smaller. Faster. More versatile. The height of military engineering technology. They’re supposedly the future of the fleet.” 

Mulder nods, but doesn’t respond. She looks up at him, thinking he’s probably bored out of his mind, only to discover he’s being pulled to the next room beneath an arch that reads  _ Navigation.  _

She knows where this is going even without a compass.

* * *

“I guess those ships probably have more high-tech nav than this, huh Scully?”

When she’s beside him again, he’s looking up – as always, his eyes to the sky and neck craned such that she can practically feel the osteophyte complex forming in his cervical vertebrae. 

“My father knew how to navigate by the stars,” she shrugs, “I imagine they still teach it at the Naval Academy as a back-up.”

“Right. The stars never short circuit,” he says, his head lolling down. He uses the momentum to stumble forward so he can squint into a glass case filled with sextants and astrolabes. 

“Well, that’s not entirely true,” she says, folding her arms across her chest for no particular reason, “Stellar spectra overheat and explode all the time.” 

“ _ Supernovas _ ,” he says, straightening up, “The death of a star.” 

She ducks her chin, a little chided. “I’m still getting used to regularly conversing with someone whose knowledge base rivals mine.” 

“Supernovas are capable of outshining entire galaxies and producing more energy than the Sun ever will,” Mulder continues. He’s not looking at her, and she rationalizes that he hadn’t heard her response, “That brightness isn’t sustainable, though. They flare up brilliantly, then collapse in on themselves and die — quite literally the definition of  _ burning out _ .” 

She’s looking at him when he finally turns. He locks onto her gaze sooner than he expected to, and it’s clearly jarring. But they both hold steady, refusing to be the first to look away; neither willing to concede that they are the one bearing the strongest resemblance to the enervated cosmos. 

* * *

Since they’re already late heading back to the Hoover building, Mulder figures they might as well grab lunch at a restaurant situated in the old boilermaker shops next to the Navy yard. He checks his watch as they slip into a corner booth, then orders a beer with his slipshod hamburger.

Scully raises an eyebrow and he just shrugs, pushing a julienned onion between his lips. 

She incessantly prods her salad. When it doesn’t turn into something with more of a brine, she reaches over and steals a french fry from his plate. She expects  him to make a show of guarding the dish, but he doesn’t. He nudges it toward her without a word.

“Mulder,” she chews, “Can I ask a favor?” 

He takes a long swill of beer and nods. 

“I update my living will annually, and I’d like to file a copy with the Bureau. Would you be a witness when I have it notarized? I’ll probably do it later this week.” She steals another fry and stuffs it into her mouth, flicking the salt from her fingertips — though she would have rather licked them clean.

“Sure, Scully,” he says, reaching for the lopsided hamburger, “But only if you promise to leave me that Fiestaware relish tray collecting dust in your kitchen hutch.” 

She pauses, her hand hovering over his plate, a few limp fries dangling from her greasy fingers. He smiles, plucking a fry from her hand which he proceeds to cram into his open mouth with the dexterity of a five-year-old.

“It’s your mother’s right?” He asks without waiting for her to answer, “My mother had the same one. The New England elite live for gaudy yet durable dinnerware.” 

“I forgot you grew up there,” Scully lilts, reaching for her glass of ice water, which has begun to sweat, “That must be why naval history had you so enthralled. Have I unwittingly made the acquaintance of one of the Vineyard’s finest skippers?” 

Mulder snorts, tipping his head back so he can toss the crispy butt-end of a fry into his gob, “A natural assumption — but an incorrect one. I was born with a congenital absence of sea legs. Whatever the gene is, mine’s defective.” 

“Conditions of the cerebellar and vestibular systems do seem to have a strong genetic component,” she muses, “I’m guessing what you really mean is that you experience motion sickness.”

“Not motion sickness —  _ seasickness. _ I don’t get carsick, I’m fine on airplanes, and I can go a round or two on the Tilt-a-Whirl — but the open sea I can’t stomach. Odd, seeing as how I was practically born in it.” 

Scully’s eyebrow quirks and she wants to ask, but he’s got a mouthful of hamburger. She tucks it away as a story to be drawn from his marrow at another time. He swallows, and she forges ahead, resting her chin in her hand, “Are you a strong swimmer?” 

He nods quickly in the affirmative with bright-eyed, boyish pride, “ _ Very _ .” 

Scully hums behind her pursed lips, studying him a moment longer before she glances down at her wilted salad, “Maybe you’re afraid of it.” 

Mulder chuckles into his napkin, clearing his throat before he bellows,  _ “The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.”  _

She feels her eyebrows knit together, pulled taut like a suture.

“It’s from  _ Ulysses _ ,” he murmurs, reaching for his beer. He takes a swig and volleys back to her, “What about you, Scully? Can you sail a sloop or a  _ yawl _ — or did you father only teach you to command frigates?” 

“I can tack a sloop,” she says, doing a double-take when she registers he’s staring, “It’s just physics, Mulder. Maintaining the correct distance between the jib and the masthead allows for greater control of airflow, which increases the efficiency of the sails.” 

He shakes his head lightly, then downs the last of his beer, “Geez, Scully: Sailboats, Supernovas. . .you got anything on  _ Storsjoodjuret _ ?” 

She smirks and shakes her head, reaching for the singular french fry left on his plate. 

“Yeah, me neither,” he sighs wistfully, “I don’t speak Swedish.” 

* * *

The afternoon slips through her hands like a rosary, and as he throws his car into park next to hers in the FBI parking garage, she realizes all that’s left to do is go home. 

He says he’ll “handle” Skinner, but she has a feeling Skinner had been “handled” well before they’d set out on their little escapade. 

“So,” he yawns, eyeing her hand as it lingers on the buckle of her seat belt — which she regrettably frees herself from, “Got any big plans tonight, Scully?” 

She looks up at him, her eyes slow-blinking as though they are in tandem with the sigh she fails to suppress. Lying to him would be pointless for one, but beyond that she simply has no desire to tell him anything other than  _ the fact-is _ truths. 

“Not particularly,” she says, scrunching her little nose indifferently, “My mom’s still having a hard time, and the rest aren’t around here. My sister’s the closest — not just geographically but,  _ y’know. _ . . ” she flicks her eyes up at him, half-shrugging as if to indicate a personal closeness that she assumes he understands.  It hits her almost immediately after she’s said the words, and she chokes: 

Yeah. He  _ did  _ know. 

_ Shit. _

She winces and silently berates herself for being so tone deaf before loudly clearing her throat and rushing through a half-assed explanation of her own sister’s whereabouts — which  _ are  _ known, “She’s at some kind of retreat in upstate New York right now.”

Scully pouts, waving her hand about as though she’s trying to dispel the ghosts currently hovering above the gearshift — which she inadvertently summoned. 

“You’re just gonna be alone?” 

She stops fidgeting and looks at him, resolving herself to his pity, the myriad ways life’s heartaches play across his face like moonlight on deep water.

“It’s not a big deal, Mulder,” she mutters, but she doesn’t mean it. 

But when he fails to offer anything to the contrary, just continues to look at her with his flushed high cheekbones, she intuits that he knows she’s making light. It occurs to her, when his hand brushes her knee as he rummages through the glove box for a tucked away bag of seeds, that a great deal of what’s understood between them has never been spoken.

She likes the way that feels.   
  


* * *

 

Her apartment is pitch black when she gets home — winter afternoons parading as impatient nighttimes. She drops her keys in a small ceramic dish on a table by the door, and takes her time shrugging off her coat — feeling exposed without it when she finally relinquishes it to a hook. Her answering machine is blinking; an angry red eye. She doesn’t flip on a light, just hits the ‘play’ button and lets regret-filled voices fill the room as she escapes down the hall to her bedroom. Escaping guilt, sympathy — and the obligation to attempt conversation with a machine. 

_ Dana, it’s Mom. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I know I always call but. . .I love you. _

The next twenty seconds are just the sound of her mother crying, then a _ click  _ over to the next message. As ever, the perk in her sister’s voice saves Scully from their mother’s  _ muchness.  _

Missy has a habit of leaving messages without preamble, which Scully finds simultaneously endearing and vexing. 

_ Did you know we take like 30,000 breaths a day? Yeah, you’re a doctor. Maybe you did know that. BUT! Did you know that most people actually breathe too shallowly to do themselves any good? I was in this workshop today with a free diver and he was teaching us how to breathe properly. I feel like I’ve lived my whole life without air before now — it’s incredible! You’d hate this place, Danie. That’s how I know it’s exactly where I’m meant to be right now. But I’m sorry that meant I couldn’t be there for your birthday. I know you don’t think 30 bears any significance, but. . .you’re still in your first Pinnacle cycle, you know. In numerology, remember? You’re a number 7: The Seeker, the searcher of truth. Intelligent but aloof. Analytical and melancholic. That sounds about right, doesn’t it? Oh! And your first 30-year period cycle is over. Your numerological period, I mean — not *that* period. But you’re on yours, aren’t you? I bet you are, because I just got mine. Anyway, I was going to look at your path number. Hold on, lemme grab a pen. Okay! So, your life path number is. . .9. Huh. Danie, you got plans to save the world I don’t know about? That’s usually what’s ascribed to life path 9-ers. But that’s a pretty alienated life path to go down. A kinda lonely one. And you’ll have to overcome a lot. . .but you have so much to give to the world. And I know you — you’ll endure. I gotta but but before I forget, remember: Pisces are ruled by their feet — so buy yourself some good shoes, okay?  _

The news drones quietly from the living as she scrubs the interior of her kitchen stove. She’s got thick rubber gloves on up to her elbows, and when she could no longer stand the acrid, chemical plume of EZ OFF, she’d rubber-banded a dishtowel over her nose and mouth. 

She looks as pitiable as she feels; tears that burn the corners of her eyes, and she tells herself they’re from the emanating fumes — a likely story. One she wouldn’t have to explain to anyone, not even herself. She’s straining to hear the evening news anchor when, instead, she hears a knock at the door. Glancing at the stove clock as she stands and removes her Macgyvered PPE, she wonders if her mother’s guilt has propelled her across state lines. 

Her still-gloved hands make her fumble with the chain on her door as she winks an eye closed to gaze through the peep hole. 

_ Oh, help.  _

It occurs to her that she could just not open the door. That he’d turn away after another lingering moment, assuming perhaps that she’d gone out after all. It would be a much happier image to present him with than, say — the tableau of her kneeling before of her stove like a more fastidious Sylvia Plath. Her tangled mop of ruddy hair is all tied up under a faded bandanna she stole from her brother years ago, and she’s sporting an old coffee-stained academy tee shirt and a pair of Gitano jeans she hasn’t worn since college. Not to mention the soles of her bare feet are mottled with crumbs. 

He looks sweetly perplexed when she opens the door, wiping her forearm across her forehead as she glowers up at him from her noticeably reduced vantage point.  

“ _ We can do it _ —?” He asks, crooking his arm up at a 90 degree angle to his face — an immemorial nod to her get-up.

She takes a step back into her apartment, her grimey hands twitching against the heft of her front door. When she closes it, a little harder than is strictly necessary, she wonders if she’s hoping to keep something out — or in. 

“Sorry I didn’t call first,” he says absently, his eyes having found her cleaning project, “I was, uh— just in the neighborhood.” 

“Mulder, that line will never work on me,” she scoffs as she yanks off the gloves, “I know you live in Alexandria.” 

He gives her a playfully hangdog glance over his shoulder. Her arms are firmly crossed, but she’s smiling. He shrugs, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. She thinks he’s being bashful until one hand comes out again, holding a small, carelessly wrapped parcel.

“I meant to give you this earlier. . .” he says, jutting his hand toward her. She doesn’t take a step closer, unsure of herself. He waggles his eyebrows at her, then tosses it. She lets out a small yip, her hands flaring open to catch it. As she does, she manages to awkwardly slap it against her chest. 

It’s practically weightless, whatever it is. She thinks of Missy on her answering machine prattling on about respiration. She wonders if Mulder has gifted her a literal breath of fresh air, wrapped in what might be the remnants of a brown paper bag. 

She looks up at him: hunched shoulders shrouded by a leather jacket she imagines smells as good as it looks, a well-fitting pair of jeans with a back pocket that keeps the shape of his wallet even when it’s empty. Not that she’s been looking at his ass.

He’s washed his hair, she notes. It’s a little spiky in the back where his head was pressed against the carseat on his way here. He’s grinning at her expectantly, and she realizes that she hasn’t even moved to unfurl her arms from her chest. 

She reaches a clumsy hand up to purloin the gift from where it’s nestled between her breasts, which are at present pushed up by her forearms. She realizes that she’s still wearing her black bra under this white tee shirt, and her face goes scarlet.

“It’s nothing fancy,” he qualifies, running a hand along his jaw, trying to alleviate her discomposure, which he’s misattributed to his present. She’s feeling a little too seen, a little caught out. His presence is almost intrusive, but only because he’s been standing in her foyer, unmoving, as though he doesn’t belong here. She never has been a good host. 

“ _ Siddown _ , Mulder,” she grunts on her way by him, headed for the kitchen. She flops unceremoniously down in a chair at the table, her legs folded beneath her, and gently places the diminutive parcel on the tabletop. He lobs himself into the chair next to her, one arm settled over the back of it. He’s chewing on the skin of his thumb. 

“Want coffee?” She asks, her eyebrow twitching in question. 

“Are you stalling?” He grins, his teeth clicking audibly against his thumb nail.

“No,” she says coolly, smiling a little too forcefully, “Just trying to be polite.” 

“Sure, Scully,” he says, “I’ll make it. You open that.”

“But Mulder –” 

He’s already at the counter, having leapt up as though spring-loaded, “You’ve got a nicer coffee maker than I do. Stainless steel. Mine’s plastic and it burns the grind so bad it tastes like cigarettes,” he turns to her as he opens a canister of grounds, “Which I, for one, am accustomed to. It seems to be the  _ Flavor of the Week  _ at the vast majority of America’s diners.”

She gives him a sympathetic nod, poking the small box with her pinky, “Many people find the pairing desirable.” 

When he gets the lid off, he gives her an appreciative smile as he realizes the little measuring spoon is still there, buried in caffeinated dirt, “Why  _ do _ coffee and cigarettes go so well together, Scully? There must be a scientific explanation for that.” 

“Well, individually the flavor profiles are quite bitter, but when combined they create something smoother, more readily palatable. At a neurochemical level, both caffeine and nicotine are secondary stimulants, but nicotine in particular acts on acetylcholine receptors and promotes the release of dopamine, which can have a calming or sedating effect.” She remembers the irony of smoking in med school, how cadavers full of black lung gave her cravings, “Of course, both are also highly addictive and have extremely unpleasant withdrawal periods.” 

He’s rifling through her kitchen cabinets, “Got enough mugs, Scully?” 

“They came as a set,” she defends, picking up his tiny gift. She feels like fucking with him, asking him what it’s for — what the day was for. What it’s all for. He must sense her hesitation, because she hears him suck in a breath, the air whistling across his teeth. He doesn’t exhale, just holds it in. Waiting. 

“You didn’t have to do this. . .” she says — and what does she mean, really? He didn’t have to take her to lunch? To the salt-encrusted Navy Yard? That he didn’t have to come here because he knew she was alone and too proud to admit so much as a whiff of disappointment? That he didn’t have to show up bearing a literal pocket-sized boon?

He sets two ceramic mugs down on her counter and turns toward her blithely. If he’s planning to call her bluff, he’s doing a damn fine job of playing it cool.

“I know I didn’t. I’m just hoping you don’t think size matters.” 

She purses her lips tight around a smile and doesn’t dignify him with a response. He can see the laughter in her eyes, and it satiates him for the moment. She lowers her gaze back to the table; to his wee offering. She feels a sadness bearing down on her now that she’s somehow wrinkled the nice little unspoken understanding they had going. She’s suddenly deeply offended by herself. Always so skilled at ruining things. She can mend someone else’s errors and screw-ups, but her own are tucked up in the corner of her sock drawer like little mistake-filled mothballs. 

The oddly specific and presently deafening sound of unwrapping fills the room until the coffee maker bleeps, and he turns to tend to it. He doesn’t see the way her face contorts into a heartened smile, her damp eyes sparkling under the glow of old lightbulbs. As she takes the lid off a scuffed up box, she makes a tiny sound but her throat catches it. 

“ _ Mulder. . . _ ” she squeaks, his name barely more than a whisper. 

“I wish I had a story to impress you with,” he says, his back still turned to her, “Y’know, something like cashing checks at every bank in the metro area until I got one, or going straight to the Mint and demanding one. . . ” he turns, nodding toward the glistening penny in her palm, “Would you believe it just happened to be in the little ashtray on my dresser where I toss loose change? 

She runs the pad of her finger over the coin’s face —  _ 1964. _

“You don’t even have to chide me about spending money on ya, Scully,” he says, picking up his mug, “Only cost me a cent.” 

“It’s very clever, Mulder. Thank you.” She says, turning her palm so the penny slides from her hand back into its little box. 

“And now,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, “The next time we’ve been in the car for an indeterminate length of time, headed straight into the heart of  _ East Bumfuck _ , and you haven’t said a word in hours —” he taps his finger lightly on the box, “I can say ‘Penny for your thoughts, Scully?’ — and we’ll both know that I have paid in advance.” 

He sits back, smiling over the rim of his coffee mug, clearly pleased with himself. He’s been working on that line all day  _ at least, _ and she finds it endearing and vexing — like Missy’s answering machine etiquette. 

_ Number 7: The Seeker. The searcher of truth.  _

Mulder and Missy would get along, she thinks, tipping her head as she drinks in the sight of him for a moment before reaching for her coffee instead.  

They sip in companionable silence, the night gone still around them. Her kitchen is comfortably warm from the degreasing stove, and he presses his mug against his stubbled cheek with a contented sigh. 

She realizes all at once — the way you fall asleep or in love — that she doesn’t know when his birthday is. 

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes on references made:  
> The U2 song is 'Mysterious Ways'  
> This provides a somewhat bland explanation for how, later, after Scully's returned, Mulder knows about her living will and had been witness to its signing.  
> The Navy HAS MANY BOAT  
> Storsjoodjuret is like the Swedish nessie.  
> That quote is definitely from Ulysses.  
> Missy's numerology ramble is limited to my limited knowledge of numerology and a cursory Google search so don't sue me, ha.  
> That Fiestaware relish tray is a real thing.


End file.
